Reasons
by no-ruin
Summary: Many things kept John Watson awake at night.
1. Prologue and Warnings

**Genre:** Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Angst**  
Pairing: **J. Watson, S. Holmes**  
Series: **Sherlock**  
Rating: **M**  
Word Count: -  
Length:** In Progress**  
Warnings:** Violence, Language, Mature and Sexual Themes, Ideation, Triggering Material**  
Note:**_ Warnings will be added as chapters are written. _

* * *

Lots of things made it hard for John Watson to sleep.

Years upon years of _reasons_ and_ things_ that kept him from closing his eyes at night. At least until his body took over and forced him. Then he could sleep, and none of the_ things_ and _years_ and_ reasons_ could get to him.

At least not for a little while.


	2. One: Nightmares

_Nightmares_

The most obvious reason was the nightmares.

John ran from them, literally and figuratively. Kept walking, kept working, kept _going,_ kept distracting himself until he reached the point where he couldn't anymore. Sometimes he felt guilty for pushing Sherlock on the same topic. Other times he didn't.

Moving into 221B Baker Street had been, easily, the best decision of his life.

The cases, the excitement, the _work_, Sherlock...

They were the best distraction he could ever have asked for.

His therapist used to accuse him of torturing himself. It wasn't like he could control them – the nightmares. If he could have stopped them, he would have a long, long time ago. He wouldn't wake in a pitiful fright shortly after each time he closed his eyes. He wouldn't wake up and shove his face into his pillow to stifle his heavy breathing, or, on worse occasions, his sobs. He wouldn't fear waking his possibly-sleeping flatmate.

He would feign sleep often. He would lie awake most nights, after nightmares, entirely unaware of the Consulting Detective glancing at the stairs leading to his bedroom.


	3. Two: Afghanistan

_Afghanistan_

Afghanistan was another prominent reason.

It was going to be from the start. He knew it. He didn't regret it; at least not the act of enlisting in itself.

He saw _everything_.

Yes, he was primarily an army doctor – but if he was needed for something else, off he would go. He didn't regret that. No, he was glad he had done so. It at least gave him a chance to save the men and women who had, inevitably, died. He often remembered one specific incident.

It'd been one year, around mid-May. He'd been at a facility in the desert, restocking before he was sent out again. There was a woman – Ara, her name had been. He was called urgently to help her. She spoke quickly, translated by a frantic soldier. She had two bullet wounds in her side.

They didn't have enough transfusable blood, at that point, to save her. She spent her last remaining minutes warning them. Two soldiers from a different country – two soldiers she didn't know, didn't owe. They had just enough time to call it in. She'd told them of a planned attack; prepared to happen at any moment.

Many soldiers lived. They had enough time to get out. Enough time to get supplies. Enough time to properly defend the base and buy some time.

A single misplaced grenade from the floor above had done the trick. The beams collapsed and fell on the other two occupants of the room. Ara was instantly killed. Kienan, the other soldier, likely the only person John could rely on, had enough time to scream at him to go; leave him. And so John did. He was needed elsewhere.

He shouldn't feel bad. With the way the beam had landed on Kienan, it was surprising that he wasn't killed just as quickly as Ara. He had less than ten minutes, at the very most. There was nothing that John could have done for him.

The beam crushed his left leg immediately. He saw it from where he had stood. He and Kienan had known what chances he'd had and they both acted accordingly.

That didn't make it hurt any less.

Sherlock had asked about it once. Quietly, when they were out. It seemed like he didn't actually expect an answer. They walked from the docks on the opposite side of London back to Baker Street because they didn't have the money for the cab.

And John had let it out.

And the next month, when John's left leg was screaming at him after a particularly bad night, he'd lain on the sofa; another small attempt to get some rest.

He never saw that it was Sherlock, not Miss Hudson, whom had left him tea. That it was Sherlock who had elevated his leg above a sofa cushion. That it was Sherlock who covered him with a fleece blanket.

That it was Sherlock who would always be there.


	4. Three: Safety

_Safety_

Safety was another thing that prevented his sleep.

John wouldn't lie – he and Sherlock quite obviously shared a dangerous profession; solving crimes and investigating murders that the Yard just couldn't do on their own. It made for many different enemies in many different places.

Sometimes John felt that it would be better to stay up – better to be sure.

Sherlock executed his customary post-case crash and John diligently stayed awake. He sat in the living room and watched the telly with no sound, other times he settled for simply sitting barefoot in the hall and staying on his guard. There was always the undercurrent of paranoia regarding the possibility of someone sneaking in. It wasn't like it hadn't happened before.

They'd likely be after Sherlock, seeing as John himself wasn't regularly made out to be much of a threat. And when Sherlock slept, close to nothing could wake him. One of his extremely few moments of vulnerability. One that he was likely unaware of. What would they do to Sherlock?

Threaten him? Blackmail him? Hurt him? Kidnap him? Torture him?

_Murder him?_

John was hyperaware of these possibilities. All the time.

Whenever Sherlock insisted on leaving in the early morning hours, in the middle of a case, John was there. Whenever he wandered off, momentarily unaware of his surroundings, John would be there. Whenever he did something that was more than a bit _not good_, John would be there. _Always._

Given his past, he shouldn't have been affected. But he was.

And so, during Sherlock's moment of vulnerability, John would watch. He would wait. And when Sherlock woke up, John would smile and make morning tea like nothing ever happened.

Because Sherlock's safety overrode his health.

Because it always would.


	5. Four: Miss Hudson

_Miss Hudson_

Sometimes it was Miss Hudson who would keep him up.

There had been one time, in the very beginning of his and Sherlock's flat-sharing days, when Sherlock had simply..._disappeared_. He'd gone. He was nowhere to be found. Wasn't answering his phone, didn't even tell John he'd left.

At first, John just thought he'd gone out. Even Sherlock Holmes had things he needed to attend to. _Especially_ Sherlock Holmes. But when one hour turned to two, turned to five, turned to _unsafe_, John had went to look for him.

In one of the worst storms in London that entire year.

He'd left his mobile in the flat, then didn't return for hours. When he did, he trudged in, drenched, coughing sickly and unbearably close to getting teary. He hadn't had the foresight, at the time, to call Lestrade, and now Sherlock was gone without a trace. He'd automatically thought the worst.

At the sound of the commotion John had made – stumbling when he walked in and almost tripping over the front rug – Miss Hudson had come quickly. At the sight of him, she made an incoherent exclamation, rushing over.

"Oh, John, what is it that you've done? Look at you, you're sopping wet and – oh, goodness me, you're burning up! C'mon, up you get, upstairs!"

She grabbed his elbow to guide him up to his and Sherlock's flat despite his weak protests. His teeth were chattering and his fingers were numb, already discoloured. He was a doctor – it was freezing outdoors. Rain was becoming sleet. He knew what the onset of hypothermia would look like, and this was cutting it close.

So he allowed Miss Hudson to lead him upstairs to their flat, push him towards the bathroom and shortly after hand him clothes through the crack in the door. He stuttered out his thank-you's even as he fumbled to pull a pair of trousers on.

He wandered into the living room, eyes flickering for any sign of Sherlock having come back. There was none. He wrung his hands as Miss Hudson bustled about, tidying up and placing warm blankets on the sofa for him. His limbs were still numb – he could feel the searing heat in his toes that signaled their thawing. He struggled to find his voice.

"Miss...Miss Hudson," he rasped, and she looked up from the boiling pot she'd placed on the stove.

"Yes, what is it? You need to have a lie down or you'll make yourself even more sick." She stirred what she was making in a way that showed much experience, barely looking as she added a dash of seasoning.

"Sherlock's gone."

She didn't so much as look up from what she was doing.

"Miss Hudson. Sherlock's gone. He's _gone_."

This time she did look over at him, taking in his shaking form and eyes tinged with red. She turned the stove off.

"Deary, did no one tell you? Go lie down."

John opened his mouth to protest but was cut off. "Don't argue, lie down."

He did as Miss Hudson asked, inching onto the sofa and rubbing his face. Miss Hudson stayed quiet for a while, helping him ease down onto the sofa and, to his slight embarrassment, tucking him in. She sat down on the edge of the cushion, putting her hand to his forehead to feel his temperature. He was likely running a fever now, he knew. She tutted under her breath.

"John, dear," she started, sending him a smile. "Sherlock does this."

John did not respond, his focus on her hands intense.

"Every once in awhile, after a case, he'll leave. Disappear for a few days, lord knows what he does when he's gone, but this happens. He's not hurt."

John let out a small sigh of relief. The muscles in his leg were no longer as tense. His still fingers regained their usual shake.

"If he was hurt, John, Mycroft would be the first to know. Sooner than us, I'd think. So don't work yourself up over it." She moved to the edge of the blanket, tucking it to his side. John couldn't help but wonder why she'd never had children. She certainly would have been a wonderful mother.

"Now, there'll be chicken soup on the stove for you if you start feeling peckish. Homemade – can't tell you the ingredients. They're a secret," she winked at him and his lips twitched. "I'll leave it on the heat, and I'll make you some tea. Don't fall asleep on me 'till you warm up a bit, alright?" She grinned in a way John could only describe as _motherly_. He found himself smiling back at her.

"Thank you, Miss Hudson."

"Anything for you, dear."


	6. Five: Harriet

_Harriet_

Harriet kept him up at night sometimes, too.

There were those nights where John was in bed, knackered but wide awake, and his phone would light up. He would roll over and reach for it, see the caller name and debate whether or not to answer.

And he would, because what if she was hurt? Or lost? Or worse?

And sometimes she would be. He'd speak quietly, timidly at first, afraid of what had caused her to call. Then he'd hear her speak and, depending on that, he'd probably know why.

She called him rarely – never to just say hello, or to wish him a Happy Christmas – but when she was lost, or sick, or drunk, or high on _who fucking knows what._

And John would always listen, always guide her, always help her, because wasn't that what brothers were supposed to do?

And then, after the call, Sherlock would either wake or watch as John paced back and forth for a while before sitting in silence. He'd never asked before. Likely because he already knew.

This time, Harriet couldn't get a word out to him without her voice breaking. He heard her trying to stifle her cries. He hushed her; soothed her to the best of his ability. Of course, he addressed her as Harry at these times. She usually never remember ever calling him except when her phone bill came 'round.

She was crying still. He could hear her heat on. Horn in the distance. She was in the car, then. Going somewhere. Not safe.

_Had she taken anything?_

"Harry. _Harry_, where are you?"

She sniffled. "Headin' towards Maldon," she said. Her voice was steadier this time.

"Maldon? Why are you...what happened?" John asked. There was a lump in his throat. His sister was sober and clean, at least at the moment. He could tell.

She'd never drive all the way to Maldon unless it was important. Especially not at half past three in the morning. John was hoping he hadn't jumped to the right conclusion. For both Harriet's and his own sake.

"It's...it's Clara, John."

The lump in his throat swelled.

"She's dead."

It _exploded._

He stared at the floor, feet dangling over the edge of his bed. He allowed himself a few seconds.

One breath.

Two.

Out, in.

"I'll meet you at the shop near her parents. Six at the latest." A tinge of Doctor Watson peered meekly through. He knew Harry could hear it.

He heard her hair brush against the speaker for a moment. A nod.

"I still loved her, John," she whispered.

"I know."

The line went dead.

When Sherlock returned from the Yard that morning, there was a note atop his microscope.

_Sherlock,_

_I'll be back...try not to burn a hole in the kitchen table again. _  
_I left you pasta in the fridge. _  
_Don't forget. _

_ -JW_

At least Sherlock managed to get some sleep that night.


	7. Six: Clara

_Clara_

She'd been there for John and Harriet since the beginning.

She'd been there when John had trouble in school, with those Dillinger kids. She'd seemed like a twig to them – short, thin, brunette. So when she'd knocked one of the stupid boys, Michael, flat on his arse, they'd developed a different attitude about her.

She'd been there for Harry when she'd worked all those awful jobs to save up money for University – enough for the both of them, she had promised. Clara had been there for her when she'd come home, night after night, exhausted and drained far beyond what a nineteen year old should have been. When John didn't know what to do to help her because he couldn't find anyone to hire him at fifteen.

She'd been there for both of them when their father had gone off the deep end less than a month later. It was something that John occasionally dealt with. His father had never gotten over their mum's death. Harry hadn't been at home, thankfully. She'd been around him once when he got like that, and John made sure it never happened again. He faced the injuries he received during his father's drunken rampage knowing it was better him than her.

He'd packed Harry's things for her that night, after father had fallen asleep. He knew she'd be at Clara's flat for the night anyway, and he showed up without any of his own belongings except a pendant and a picture of his mother. He hardly spoke, and he didn't explain. Clara'd been there, putting two and two together, hushing Harriet and her questions in his place.

Clara, who had offered her home up to them without a single moment of hesitation.

Clara, who, after Harriet had been properly tucked away in bed, came to help him clean the bleeding and scarring wounds from the belt on his back.

_Clara, who was..._

Clara had been there for Harriet near John's seventeenth birthday, when they got the call that their father had died. Alcohol poisoning. John hadn't been there for her that time; he'd left for a few days. Visited mum's grave. Wandered, for the most part.

But Clara had been there to put back together the pieces of Harriet like John never could have.

John was so in her debt that he'd never had a way to repay her.

He hadn't been there for Clara when she needed it. That had been Harry. He'd never seen Clara as anything other than strong. So now, looking at her, wrapped up in the red cashmere sweater that he and Harry had saved up to get her years and years ago, he had nothing that he could say.

Her injuries were well-hidden, her lower body entirely shielded from view. The gashes that killed her, he knew, stayed covered by her hair. It almost looked like the traffic accident had never happened.

Her eyes were closed, the lovely chocolate and green that had grabbed Harriet's attention so quickly, concealed. The normal rose dusting on her cheeks was long gone. Her wedding ring was still on her finger, just as Harriet's was.

He breathed deeply. He did not approach her casket. The wind blew softly, and he rubbed one hand on Harriet's still shoulder, knowing she'd prefer to be alone.

And when he turned to walk away, he was unsurprised to see Sherlock leaning against a tree not far away. Leave it to him to figure out what happened and come anyway. John felt no irritation.

They got in a car – the one John had borrowed from a friend to get to Maldon, and the remainder of the daylight was spent driving back to London. They stayed up that night watching films – about which Sherlock did not complain – and drinking tea. Sherlock did not speak. Neither did John.

It seemed that words weren't needed.


	8. Seven: Addiction, Part One

_Addiction_

Addiction was something that seemed to follow John wherever he went.

It started out with his father.

It was right around the time when John figured out that his mum wasn't going to live 'till Christmas. He was eight years old.

Mum promised she'd take him to go to the shops – let him help her pick up holiday gifts for Harry and dad.

He knew something was wrong when he saw that dad was still home. He sat in the kitchen, staring intensely at a cup of coffee. Dad wasn't sick. Dad had work. Dad _never_ missed work.

"Dad? It's nine o'clock. You're late for work."

"I'm not goin'." He didn't even look at John. Just stared at his coffee some more.

John worried his lower lip for a moment before deciding to leave it alone. It was no use getting dad angry – so close to the holidays, he probably just needed a rest.

John turned around, padding down the corridor in his new, fuzzy, white Christmas socks. It was a special early gift from mummy – she'd told him that it was because his little toes always looked so cold. And he wasn't supposed to tell anyone else, but sometimes, when he and mummy were home alone, they'd slide all around the floor with their new, matching fuzzy socks.

He was just pushing the door open to his parents' room when dad came up behind him. John almost jumped from the surprise. He hadn't even heard his dad get up.

"Dad, what's wrong? Let go of my wrist, please."

His dad's face was twisted in a way John had never seen before. His grip was so tight that John's wrist had already begun to ache and his fingers spasmed.

"Leave her be," he hissed.

John looked up at him in confusion. He heard his mum sit up from the bed and cough.

"I just wanted to know if mum and I were still going to the shops," he explained. "Is she sick? I'll give her medicine so she can feel better. Like a doctor." He smiled, but it faded when Dad still refused to let go of his wrist. He was pulled roughly towards the hall again, and he almost tripped on his own feet.

"No, you leave her well alone, you hear me?!"

John didn't know how to react. Dad had never raised his voice before – not even during rugby games. His dad cuffed him 'round the back of the head and he yelped.

"You hear me?!"

John's knees wobbled.

"Knock it off! John, sweetie, come here, please."

John's dad let go of his wrist, but before he could argue, John had already run to his mum. He curled up against her on the bed, wrapping his arms around her. She settled for a sad smile, pulling the comforter up around him, too. She rubbed gentle circles on his back.

John's father had walked away. They heard another door in the house slam.

"Are you okay, mummy?" John asked warily. She was pale. She had dark rings around her eyes. Blonde strands of her hair had begun to fall out. Her hands were shaking, he could feel them. She cleared her throat.

"I'm sick again, John."

He frowned, clutching the front of her nightdress in his small hands. It was soft. "What can I do?" he asked.

His mum didn't answer for a while. If she still hadn't been rubbing circular patterns into his back, he would have thought she'd fallen asleep.

"I don't..." she paused, pressing her lips to the top of his head.

"I don't think I'm going to get better this time, love."

She died a few months later.

* * *

John saw much more of Harriet in the time following his mother's death. He saw much less of his father. That was when it started.

At first, it was only the weekends. He'd come home long after the time he should have and pass out on the sofa, assuming he made it there. John and Harriet steered far out of his way on these days.

Soon, it became a change to more than just the weekends..

Then he began buying drinks and keeping them at home.

Harriet kept away from home as much as she could, leaving food in the fridge for him to eat. John would tiptoe across the hall and through the sitting room only when he was absolutely sure his father was asleep and that he wouldn't wake. He learned that after the first occurrence.

He hadn't been very old then. Ten, maybe? A little older? Younger? He couldn't remember exactly. Didn't try to.

He didn't have school and Harry wasn't home. She never really was. Came home when their father was at work, fed him and helped wash his clothes if she had the time. And if not, left before he could say a word.

After all, at her age, her being out late wasn't looked at as particularly unusual by other people. It wasn't her fault. John didn't blame her. If he could be out like that without being questioned, he'd go, too. But he wouldn't leave his younger sibling home alone with a drunk. He'd certainly do something about it, too.

He knew there was nothing he could say. Without Harry, John would be brushed off because his father would say he just came home after a night with his pals. That John didn't understand. That he never hit him. Which was true, at least then, because John wasn't in sight enough to let that happen. Without Harry, his father could talk his way out of it. Without Harry, his father would never get help. _They_ would never get help. And she wouldn't be willing.

So John normally stayed in his bedroom whenever his father was home. He curled up under the covers and would stay there and read all the wonderful books he'd begged the librarian to let him borrow. Occasionally he had enough time to sneak Harry's old CD player from her bag and listen to calm music. He played the discs his mother used to love. Back when she wrote, before she got sick all the time. They helped when father got particularly rowdy or when John could sometimes hear him cry.

He thought that he had enough time before his father was supposed to return from work. John had forgotten he didn't have any crackers left in his room and that he drank all the bottles of water the night before. He thought he surely had enough time to at least grab a few more and maybe even some crisps from the shelf, too.

He practically flew from his room, now unnerved even within the confines of his own home. Except it was never really like a home anymore, not since mum died. Any room that wasn't his own did nothing to slow the choking anxiety he felt when he was outside of it.

He quickly opened the fridge, ignoring the glass bottles that clinked. There was no water; nothing other than his fathers' drinks. At the sound of the front door John froze.

His father stood passively in the doorway and all John could do was stand there.

"Sit down," he said.

John just continued to stand there. There were no chairs, where was he supposed to...?

"Sit down!" his father bellowed and John stepped back, frightened, before plopping ungracefully down onto the floor. The fridge door hadn't quite closed and his father stared at it for a moment before striding forward with a purpose. He opened it again, glancing individually at each bottle. He muttered a number with each he looked at, counting them under his breath.

John tried to keep as still as possible. His father stopped, dragging his eyes over them all a second time, a look of frustration on his face. Then realization.

He glanced at John for a moment before pulling one of the bottles from the fridge and closing it. He yanked the top off using only his fingers with practiced ease and John held the bottle when it was roughly thrusted in his direction.

"Drink it," his father growled and John didn't disobey. He kept quiet and took a long sip despite the odd sensation in the back of his throat. He tried not to display a negative reaction.

He held the bottle back out to his father who, if anything, looked even angrier than before. John held his breath. His father grabbed the bottle from him, and for the first few seconds John thought he was going to drink from it .

So at the movement of his father, John quickly scrambled out of the way. Glass rained down and he gasped as shards of it coated with liquor pricked at his skin and sliced mercilessly. At least it wasn't his face. He stumbled up into a standing position as his father started to scream.

"So, it was you!" he yelled, and John took a few steps to the side and backwards, jarring his arm as he hit the edge of the doorway. He and his father were in opposite positions now. John kept his eyes trained on his father's hands

"At first I thought it was her, the conniving little bitch! Just packing up and leaving whenever she pleased instead of sneaking around like you." John swallowed roughly.

"But it's been you the entire time, hasn't it been?" his father asked, suddenly quiet. They made eye contact for a few seconds. " Hasn't it?"

"Doing what?" John asked, voice close to trembling. The first words he'd spoken to his father in close to two years.

"Stealing my goddamn drinks, that's what!" he exploded, and when he took a step in John's direction, John bolted. Spun around, ran straight for the front door and slammed it shut behind him. He ducked to avoid being seen from any of the house's windows, even though it was dark. He wasn't followed outside.

He snuck around to his window, easing it open slowly. Harriet had kept it greased and told him to use it if he ever needed to leave while father was home. It had seemed extreme at the time, but now, as he pulled himself in with some difficulty, he understood why it was so necessary.

He locked his door and opened his closet, burrowing in there as he heard his father turn on the telly. Better to keep him assuming he'd run off for the night. That he had someplace else he could go. He curled up with some blankets, put on his headphones and turned on his trusty booklight.

That was the first time he took the blame for Harriet, and certainly not one of the last. If listening to music and reading was what kept him sane, he was going to revel in it.

His hands' lack of constant shaking kept him too distracted to sleep, anyway.


	9. Eight: Addiction, Part Two

**Note**: There will be a two day gap between updates for the time being. Apologies in advance!

* * *

_Addiction II_

As the years went by, sleep was a much more difficult for John to get. No matter how exhausted he became, he found that there would be days inbetween any kind of rest he got, which still amounted to very little.

John wasn't sure when his own addiction had started. It developed over time.

He'd still been young at the very start.

It'd begun simply. Taking a bit too much paracetamol when he could have done without. Not a big deal, not at all. No real repercussions.

After a while, he found it was aiding him to sleep. It could calm him that minuscule amount and sometimes that would be enough to pull him under. He became dependent on it. But it could only do so much.

He was becoming intolerant; he was plagued by headaches more and more frequently. He thought it was worth it, though, if he could find sleep. Anything would be worth it if he could find sleep. So that was where the pills had come in.

Harry had begun leaving nighttime drowsy medication in her room. She never used it, never touched it; just let it sit there. What harm could it do? Taking it hadn't been hard – she hadn't even noticed. Although, it wasn't like she noticed much at all anymore.

He'd take it and expect to fall asleep within the hour – something he only recalled being able to do in his very early childhood. He would wake, still tired, but much less than he was used to. But he got careless. Used too much at one time – didn't pace himself, got sick.

He spent that night curled into a ball underneath his covers, shaking and shivering while his body tried to process the medication he'd taken. His hair was mussed and damp and his heart hammered. He rocked himself on his side, trying to settle his rebelling stomach. It had little effect. His stomach muscles contracted painfully every few seconds and, for a short time, John was genuinely worried.

Not because of the fact that he was sick – but if he had to get to a hospital. It wasn't an option. Not at that point. They couldn't afford the medical bill and father would be beyond furious. John wouldn't know what he would do. So he waited it out.

He had gotten better. That had been the worst of it, at that time. But almost a year later, John had taken a risk.

He hadn't been in his mothers' room since she died. No one had. But he needed to at least see what was left of her belongings after all these years. When he slept, albeit rarely, he sometimes saw her. Watched her die, a painful and slow progression.

He'd be reminded of the last beach trip they took together, just the two of them. Their last picnic in the park. And sometimes he wouldn't know he was dreaming and wake up, only to be reminded that she was gone.

That she was never coming back.

Not for father, not for Harriet, and certainly not for him.

And no, he wouldn't cry, but damn, he felt it. In his every waking moment, the hole she left tore itself larger; ripped him piece by piece.

He didn't expect, as he pushed open that door, for everything to be in exactly the same place it had been years ago.

He didn't expect to be overtaken by sentimentality.

He didn't expect that he would keep one of her knitted blankets.

_He didn't expect that he'd find her medication._


	10. Nine: Addiction, Part Three

_Addiction III_

Those times were close to the lowest in his entire life.

It got to and past the point of sickness.

He didn't get more medication and use it right away – no, he had learned from his mistakes. He stocked up; made sure he had enough, lest suspicion arise, which it never did.

He got his prescriptions now via a university nurse who owed him a favour. He found some continued diagnosis; symptoms related to what his mother had – overall harmless – and she'd sign off on it. He got enough for a month or so, the standard amount, and kept his grades up. Sometimes he mixed medications, if he felt overwhelmed. Everyone thought it was the sickness if he looked unwell and had no reason to believe otherwise.

_Poor John, with that poor sickness and his poor, late mother; didn't you know? Heard his father was an alcoholic._

Neither his father nor his sister were home. He was older now – secondary school age. He felt much older. He was tired. He was so, _so_ _tired_. Of all of it. He could not find the strength to move; not quite on the edge of delirium, but close enough now.

He was fully clothed – stained trousers and a jumper torn in spots. They clung to his frozen skin. He lay in the bathtub, head against the tiles and feet dangling over the edge. Water was halfway up his chest. His gaze was unfocused, or rather, focused solely on the ceiling.

His pupils were dilated. There was dried blood beneath his fingernails that was slowly washing away and scratches, raw and red on the insides of his arms. It wasn't like he could feel the pain. There were specks of blood where skin had been torn – no matter how much scratching he did, it still felt like there were_ things_ crawling on him.

His veins stuck out vividly against his skin, his pulse throbbing weakly. Some of his hair had begun to fall out – not in chunks, but large strands; enough that he would notice. He knew he was unwell. He knew that something needed to be done. He just didn't know what.

John listened to his own heartbeat. It was unsteady. Beating unhealthily fast in one moment and slowing to a crawl in the next. Perhaps it was just the progression of time. John did not know, nor did he care to.

He felt numb. Both literally, with his skin and bones and trembling limbs, and inside. He almost wanted to scoff, but he didn't have the energy for it. Is this what he had been reduced to?

_Of course it was._

He contemplated it for almost a second. It was just a fleeting thought, not something he dwelled on or something that recurred. He could just maneuver that small amount and _down, down, down, _under the shallow water he'd go.

It'd be difficult, at first. He could hold his breath until his lungs felt like they would burst, open his eyes against the water and let the burn consume his body. Watch as air bubbles drifted to the surface and see how quickly spots invaded his vision.

Maybe he'd change his mind. Struggle against it. But he would fatigue and give in anyway. From there it would be easy – just drift away.

But the weight of his mothers' pendant was almost beating against his skin in time with his heart.

He couldn't do it.


	11. Ten: Addiction, Part Four

_Addiction IV_

John had, eventually, grown better. Physically, for the most part, but he found himself smiling more often; found himself happier. He'd taken to keeping a tally. He'd never quite shaken that habit – even now, he had a journal for it underneath his bed in Baker Street. It helped when he felt overwhelmed, rather than... other means. He could look back and see how many things brought him joy at some point in his life – no matter how insignificant. And that would keep him grounded.

It had been a struggle, medical school. He could have gotten away with it; forging his own prescriptions or having someone else do it for him. He likely wouldn't have been discovered – not with the way everyone perceived him. But he never went through with it. Not once in all those years had he bounced back.

Afghanistan hadn't afforded him the slightest chance to even think about it. That was likely one of the few reasons he missed it so much. Didn't allow him time to dwell.

After Afghanistan, however, he'd given in. He felt tortured. Torpid. Tired. He relapsed. Became much worse than he had been as a young man – especially since he had the resources.

_His invalidation, his past, his bulletwound, his limp..._

He felt he needed it.

_The medication._

_The stimulation._

_The distraction._

And he got it.

But when he found himself contemplating again, becoming sick again; sicker than he'd ever been before, he forced himself to stop. Nearly died in the process. Not that he'd cared much at that point.

And then he had met Sherlock Holmes.

At first, John had been... not quite irritated by him, but certainly baffled, at least in the beginning. But he could not resist the pull of him, in the end – stoic and cold, detached; an excellent case solver. Someone willing to allow him to tag along. That, in itself, was rare. Someone who didn't need to know his life story, but could seek it out if he so wished. He moved into the flat with him – London was all he really had left. And Sherlock Holmes was the _ultimate_ distraction.

And it seemed that, to him, John Watson would be the same.

At first, John had been put off guard by Lestrade's 'drugs bust'. Hadn't caught on. Made a disbelieving comment or two. Regretted it afterwards, of course.

"You?" he had asked. Swallowed harshly. Didn't breathe.

"Shut up!" Sherlock had replied. That small remark had quieted John and they didn't mention it again, after that. But John had kept a closer eye on Sherlock from then on. He tried to keep them both occupied.

He begged Lestrade for a case, for paperwork, _something._

John knew what addiction felt like._ What it did_.

And if one of them bounced back, so would the other. He wasn't prepared to let that happen.

John hadn't given a reason why, but Lestrade seemed to know. He acquiesced, giving John and Sherlock what he could when he could. John wasn't sure if Sherlock actually knew anything about his past. If he cared enough to find out. If he realized why there was no medication of any kind ever left in the flat. Why John didn't take anything, no matter how sick he got. He couldn't be sure.

But, in the end, it seemed he and Sherlock Holmes were much more similar than he'd originally thought.


	12. Eleven: Molly

_Molly_

John noticed right away that something was upsetting her. He could tell that something was off.

Usually, when he and Sherlock were in the mortuary or the lab, Molly was at least somewhat talkative. Even if it was normally to Sherlock, she would at least be speaking. But she wasn't today. Neither of them were, although it wasn't out of the ordinary for his flatmate.

While Sherlock flounced around from table, to morgue, to microscope, Molly sat silently at a computer, typing away. She didn't so much as look up even as Sherlock entered the room loudly and exited it just the same.

John glanced up occasionally at her, observing as she moved a stray strand of hair from her face. He closed the file that he was flipping through and slid off the table edge he'd been sitting on. He crossed the room slowly.

He placed a gentle hand on her back, his stomach shifting at the look on her face. She was pale; lips chapped, hair haphazardly thrown into a bun. Her fingernails were bitten down close to nothing and she had light spots on her cheeks. She smiled weakly at him and asked if he needed anything. He frowned.

Her smile was forced – even John could see it. He leaned against the table she sat at. Her smiled wavered.

"What's happened?" John asked. No prelude, no small talk, no way for her to sidestep it without lying directly.

She bit her lip glancing back at the computer screen. John read through it quickly. Flat listings.

"Saw the notice when I got home last night," she explained, wringing her hands in her lap. "Pasted to my doorway. I have to be out before the end of the week." John stayed silent, placing his hand on her back again as she spoke.

"I don't have anywhere to go, John," she said, and he could practically envision himself in her place; a situation he'd found himself in more than once. "My cousins aren't in country and I can't afford to leave."

John smiled down at her, and she seemed confused. "It's a good thing we've got room at our flat, then."

Molly gawped.

* * *

"I'm so sorry that I can't let you stay in 221C, dear; believe me, I would I were able," Miss Hudson fawned, helping Molly carry one of her small bags of personal belongings. She only had two, and most of it was only her clothing. Somehow that didn't surprise John.

Molly looked flustered and unsure of what to do. John grinned as he watched her scramble for an answer, climbing up the stairs with Miss Hudson not far behind.

"No, no, it's entirely fine!" she exclaimed. "I'm thankful that all of you are letting me stay here while I get my things sorted. That's more than I could ask for," she threw out, glancing at a chuckling John as she was enveloped in a tight hug. He listened to the fading sound of Miss Hudson bustling about the kitchen and chatting to Molly. She'd certainly taken quite the liking to her.

John leaned against the wall, smile still on his face. "Are you sure you're alright with this?" he asked. Sherlock shrugged noncommittally.

"So long as she's quiet," he noted, before bounding upstairs as well.

And Molly lived up to be exactly that. She was always quiet; dressing and leaving for work without so much as letting the kettle finish boiling. She kept all evidence of her in the sitting room out of sight. Hell, if John wasn't awake so much of the time, he doubted he'd even see her at all.

She refused to take his bed, no matter how much he insisted. Often, she just lay comfortably on the sofa, doing research or scrolling through more flat listings using Sherlock's laptop – which he, surprisingly, allowed. Other times, at late hours, she would sit there, blanket spread over her, reading glasses on, hair down, focus intense. She enjoyed assisting Sherlock with his experiments when he asked, and even, sometimes, when he didn't.

Both he and Sherlock were given a new perspective of her.

She fit in well.

John had been wide awake, flipping through a book in his room early in the morning – it couldn't have been much past three. He'd crept quietly down the stairs, thinking that maybe some tea could calm his nerves.

He didn't expect to see the soft glow of the lamp in the sitting room, nor did he expect to see Molly leaning over from her seat on the sofa, face in her hands.

He cleared his throat so as not to startle her, and she looked up at him, her eyes almost resigned; watery, but cheeks still dry. He took a seat next to her and was glad when she leaned into him, not bothering to rub her encroaching tears from her face. He snaked his arms around her shoulders, letting her take the comfort she needed. The comfort she_ deserved_.

John stared at the doorway, watching as Sherlock pushed himself away from it. Neither of them needed to speak. Sherlock sauntered slowly back to his own room, before Molly could even notice he was there.

Yes, she fit in well, indeed.


	13. Twelve: Lestrade

_Lestrade_

It turned out that Molly didn't need to stay much longer, after all.

Lestrade had, by default, learned of their current living arrangements.

Or, rather, had walked into their flat expecting to see Sherlock or John and instead found nothing except a sleeping Molly; glasses askew and all. They'd planned to go out for a pint that night, and John had enjoyed receiving that frantic call. They had met at the Yard shortly after, instead.

John had laughed particularly hard when asked, as Greg had so eloquently put it, if they were –_ you know_. And just to tease him some more, he had feigned ignorance.

"Are you..._ together?_"

John had been practically reduced to tears by that, wheezing as he fought to catch his breath. "No, no – god no!" he choked, clutching his stomach. "Absolutely not." His breath hitched. He was attempting to still his shaking sides. "Even if we were, do you think I'd treat her like that?"

Greg had let through a subtle nod, glancing at John nervously. "Her and Sherlock, then...?" he had asked, and John found he couldn't contain himself any longer. He had, quite literally, laughed so hard he needed to sit down. He laughed until it was painful. Greg didn't seem to know what the cause of his response had been and, for a second, John could have wondered how he actually managed to become detective inspector.

He was like Sherlock. Brilliant with his work, but oblivious to the things that should be most obvious. If he hadn't seen the man on scene, it would have been a question to seriously consider.

"No, Lestrade – no. I just," John paused, grinning madly. " You've got it bad, haven't you?"

"Yes," Lestrade agreed automatically, running a hand across his face. He then seemed to realize what he had actually said. "Wait, no–" he corrected, then doubled back. "I don't know!"

John's roaring laughter had finally trickled down to a chuckle, and Lestrade sat down as he began to explain. "Greg, it's as simple as this," he started, complete with unnecessary hand gestures that would have put Sherlock to shame. He had one chance to get this through the mans' thick skull. "Molly got evicted." Greg frowned, nodding.

"She needed a place to stay. As far as I'm aware, she doesn't even have any relatives in Britain right now." It seemed to dawn on the inspector and John could see the beginnings of a flush creeping up his neck. "I wasn't going to leave her without a place to stay. We had room."

John stood up, readjusting his jumper before reaching for his coat. "And that's all there is to it." John had never seen Lestrade turn such a colour. Right as John opened the door and was about to step out, Lestrade spoke.

"How the hell did you get Sherlock to agree to that?"

John shrugged, hand against the doorframe. "I'll be damned if I know. And – Greg?"

Lestrade glanced up at him again. John smirked.

"Just ask her."

And John was out the door before he could even fumble for a response.

Molly left their flat by the end of the week.


	14. Thirteen: Mycroft

**Note:**_ Due to finals, updates will be sporadic for the next one to three weeks. Apologies._

* * *

_Mycroft_

If John thought Sherlock was difficult to understand on his own, then understanding his relationship with his brother was downright impossible.

Mycroft rarely bothered him but when he needed to, he managed to do so in a magnificently obnoxious fashion. He came to the flat a few times, showed up at a crime scene or two, but his ultimate favourite way of finding time for John to talk would be threatening and, essentially, kidnapping.

So when John received a text one evening, from none other than one Mycroft Holmes, he had been extremely tempted to delete it or simply not respond.

But Mycroft never texted, so of course John had to look at it.

'_I require your assistance. Do you have time to speak? The Diogenes Club at 2100._  
_Please attend._  
_-Mycroft Holmes_'

John sighed, air hissing through his teeth. He texted back quickly – his time spent with Sherlock having caused that change.

'_I'll be there._  
_-JW_'

John rolled his shoulder, rubbing it gently. He had a feeling that it was going to be a lengthy evening.

* * *

They sat at a desk across from eachother. John observed quietly. Mycroft was acting unusually cordial – offering him tea, speaking to him privately and with some semblance of respect. And, for once, he knew exactly where he was.

John knew he had it in him – hell, even Sherlock did, deep down – but he never expected kindness from Mycroft to be turned on him in such a manner. It was... pleasant, if not morbidly unsettling.

"What did you need my help with?" John asked, sitting comfortably in his chair. Mycroft looked much more relaxed in dress than John had seen before. He wore the appropriate dress pants and shirt, of course, but just a vest otherwise. No usual suit.

Mycroft seemed to be contemplating his words, moving the wristwatch he had on in a kind of unconscious gesture. John was unsure of how to feel. Of course, it was nice that Mycroft had warmed up enough to him to be comfortable, if that was even what was going on... but it was so much different than the Mycroft John thought he was familiar with.

John glanced at Mycroft expectantly.

"I thought it would be best to request you to do this in person," Mycroft began, folding his hands. "I need you to inform Sherlock of something. I am... unsure of how he may respond," he explained, appearing hesitant. John could tell how difficult it was for him to admit that. It seemed that both Holmes brothers had that problem.

John kept his silence and waited patiently for Mycroft to continue.

"He and Mummy were... close," he summarized shortly, and John didn't ask. There was obviously more to that but it wasn't his place. He had never met the mother of both Holmes boys. Nor any of their other family, if they even had any. His stomach twisted. He had a feeling the news he was about to be asked to deliver was unpleasant.

"Very close. She's approaching old age. She has... begun to grow ill." Mycroft took a sip of his tea.

"None of us are sure how she is going to fare."

John nodded, his mid strangely clear.

_Doesn't this sound familiar?_

"I'll tell him," John said moments later, and Mycroft looked vaguely surprised.

"Are you sure?" An undertone of disbelief.

John nodded again. "Of course."

There were a few moments of uncomfortable silence. John took that as his cue to gather his things. He slung his bag over his right shoulder, walking towards the door.

"Thank you, John."

John nodded quickly, and continued walking.


	15. Fourteen: Sherlock, Part One

_Sherlock I_

Now that he had arrived back at the flat, John wasn't so sure he could break the news to Sherlock. Sherlock could be distant, complacent, bitter; he had the potential to live up to his sociopathic title, at least in public – most definitely. But he didn't know how Sherlock would react to something like this – something this personal.

It was new territory.

There were things John knew Sherlock cared about, but he never quite knew in regards to actual people. Something in him, however skeptical of Mycroft he was, knew that being described as _close_ to Sherlock Holmes was no small matter.

He shuffled uncomfortably to the doorway of the kitchen, observing Sherlock as he fretted over some complicated experiment. He'd been working on it for more than a week now – John was unsure of what it was, but it was more than something to simply tide him over between cases.

Sherlock had forgone protective goggles, settling plainly for latex gloves. He broke his concentration momentarily to push a stray curl from his face. It was then that he noticed John.

John straightened unconsciously to his full height, squaring his shoulders and speaking before Sherlock had a chance. "Something's come up," he started, and he sat down at the table across from the detective. He was mindful not to jarr anything on the tabletop.

Sherlock's eyebrows were raised, drawn up in interest before he groaned loudly. "Did you set yourself another date, John? Please tell me she's at least mildly intelligent," he complained. "The last one was less interesting than a toaster."

He adjusted, thinking. "Likely had a lower IQ than one as well."

John grit his teeth at the mention of her, and did not comment. It had ended quickly and rather terribly. Sherlock had a point, he could admit.

He folded his hands on the table. "This isn't about me. It's about..." he paused. He couldn't make out the reason why he was so hesitant to speak. Sherlock leaned in, inspecting something on the tray of his microscope.

"It's about your mother."

Sherlock glanced up at him for a moment before returning his gaze to his experiment.

"Yes, and what about her?"

John couldn't read his expression.

"She's... she's grown ill, Sherlock. Something they aren't sure they can repair."

Sherlock still didn't meet his gaze.

"Mycroft asked me to tell you. He couldn't tell me exactly what was wrong, but," he paused again. His fingers were steady. "He said that, because of her age, and its progression, they could only..." he trailed off.

He wasn't sure if Sherlock was even still listening. He wondered what his mother was like. Was she as dreadfully... _cold_ as her sons could be? Or was she anything like John's own? What about their father – was he involved in their lives or was he out of the picture? Dead, maybe? John frowned. He'd never thought to inquire. He knew almost nothing about the Holmes family. Surely, after all this time, he should have at least asked...

"John."

Sherlock's hand was paused above his microscope, in the process of adjusting the stage clips to get a better look at his slide.

He stared intensely at John, making direct eyecontact. John could feel his fingers twitch, but he held his gaze.

The light casted an icy blue hue onto Sherlock, his skin even less coloured than usual. Porcelain, almost. John wondered if it was even healthy for someone to become that pale. Even as a doctor, it wasn't something he'd thought about before. Sherlock's hair was bouncy; frazzled and slightly damp at the tips. That was surprising – there must have been a gap of inactivity in his experiment if he'd had the time to bathe.

John wasn't a person that enforced a large amount of eyecontact, but when Sherlock gazed at him so acutely, John found it difficult to look away. It felt as if Sherlock was sorting through his thoughts; as if he could see them through his facial expressions. It was as if, with a simple look, Sherlock could pull away all of his layers; leave him naked, with all of his secrets revealed to no one else in the world but him – his intense scrutiny and fierce observation.

And it was as if John were to look away, it'd be an admission to every terrible thing he'd ever done.

A few moments later, Sherlock broke contact. He moved his slide and focused his attention on it, rather than John or anything else.

John swallowed a shaky breath.

He sat in his place for a few moments more, giving Sherlock the opportunity to speak if he was going to.

He didn't.

John stood slowly, reaching for Sherlock's empty teacup. He placed it on the counter next to the sink as quietly as he could. "I'll-" John somehow knew Sherlock was listening. "I'll be upstairs if you need me, yeah?" The question was rhetorical. There was no response from Sherlock except the minuscule incline of his head as he peered through the lens of his microscope.

When John came back downstairs later that evening, he pretended not to noticed the glass slide shards in the bin.


	16. Fifteen: Violet, Part One

_Violet I_

At the sound of soft creaks from the stairs, John's eyes opened.

Pink-tinged light flooded in through the separation of his curtains, birds chirping quietly over the bustle of the waking city.

His eyes felt almost unbelievably dry and he sat up slowly, rubbing them. He tensed as his door was eased open, head whipping towards the sound. He relaxed when Sherlock stuck his head in.

"Let's go, John. Are you coming or not?"

He was fully dressed, scarf wrapped loosely around his neck despite the comfortably cool temperature.

John blinked. The sarcasm fought its way out before he could bite it back.

"Well yeah, sure, Sherlock," he griped. "Not like I need to know exactly where we're headed or anything. Not at all."

He swung his legs off the edge of his bed and slipped on his shoes, still dressed himself. He hadn't expected to get any rest.

"We're paying my mother a visit," Sherlock explained simply, as if it were something obvious. John stared. "Cab's waiting." Sherlock pulled his coat tighter around himself before stalking off, his footsteps echoing softly from the staircase.

John blinked again, trailing after him a moment later. He rubbed his arm, his knitted jumper scratching against his skin uncomfortably.

He figured Sherlock would have gone to see her at some point, but he didn't think that he would be asked to join him. Sherlock folded himself gracefully into the cab and John bundled in, with a bit more difficulty, beside him.

Sherlock was mostly silent throughout the ride, typing away lazily at the keys of his phone. John didn't quite want to break the silence; it wasn't uncomfortable yet. Something told him that it wasn't likely to stay that way.

* * *

Whatever John had been expecting, Sherlock's mother was not it.

He braced himself before Sherlock opened the door, standing unsurely in the hall for a moment before Sherlock impatiently called him in. His voice was quiet; his entire demeanor had shifted. There were three other patients in the room, all peacefully sleeping. Sherlock quietly eased the partition open, stepping forward just enough for John to close it again behind them. It was still fairly dark outside, sunlight only weakly streaming in.

Sherlock smiled pleasantly –John could tell, the moment it appeared on his face, that it was a genuine reaction. The woman sitting upright on the hospital bed mirrored his expression, throwing up her arms as Sherlock leaned forward to embrace her.

John could hear her joyous mumbling from where he stood and his lips twitched. He'd never seen Sherlock act quite like this – it was truly enlightening.

Sherlock's mother was much different than him in obvious ways, but John could just as easily spot their similarities.

Where Sherlock was tall and strong despite his physique, she was short and seemingly frail. John suspected that was only due to her sickness. Her hair was a warm blonde compared to his dark brown, trailing slightly past her shoulders in soft, relaxed waves rather than bouncy curls.

If she wasn't ill, John doubted she would have been so pale. Her face lacked Sherlocks' angular sharpness, retaining some of its girlish curve and John could see her shining eyes from where he stood. Their eyes; they were stunningly similar.

John noted that she must have been young when she had him. She had few wrinkles and her grays were numbered. Mycroft had mentioned that she was approaching old age, however; looks were deceiving, John knew.

The only real physical indications of her illness were the dark circles under her eyes and the nasal cannula attached to assist her breathing.

It was mid-embrace when she seemed to notice that John was there, and she smacked her son's shoulder lightly. He stepped back, traces of his smile still lingering.

"Mother," he introduced. "This is Doctor John Watson. My..."

The pause itself was minimal, and likely unnoticeable.

John still felt the sting.

He'd done it to Sherlock once, he knew, when they'd met Sebastian Wilkes. His correction was taken in a way he hadn't meant – Sherlock had never mentioned it, but John knew. He had never apologized; he decided he'd do so when they returned to Baker Street.

"...friend."

Miss Holmes grinned, and John was instantly reminded of Sherlock in the midst of a case. She turned to Sherlock, smile widening impossibly. "You didn't tell me you were bringing your flatmate!" she exclaimed, delighted; as if it were Sherlock's first playdate.

John was a tad shocked – she knew more about him than he did her, it seemed.

Where John expected Sherlocks' irritated scowl, he instead witnessed a soft curve of lips.

Miss Holmes grasped John's hands with both of her own, squeezing lightly instead of a handshake. John felt more relaxed in her presence than he expected.

"It's nice to meet you, Miss Holmes," he greeted formally, a smile lighting up his face.

"Oh, please, call me Violet!" she stated. John began to understand the family name trend. She let go of his hands.

"It's so nice to finally meet you," she said, pulling her legs to sit criss-cross on her bed despite the slight pull of wires. Childlike, she was.

"Both of my boys have mentioned you, but I never got much of a chance to ask anything. Oh, this is fantastic."

Sherlock tidied the stand by the bed, remaining respectfully silent. John glanced at him, then back to Violet, unsure of what to say. She seemed to pick up on that.

"I don't know much about you or any of Sherlock's family, really," he confessed, rubbing the back of his neck.

She gestured for the both of them to sit down.

"I can't believe he didn't mention me," she complained mildly, sipping from a lukewarm waterbottle. Before Sherlock could slide in an explanation, she cleanly cut him off. John wondered how she did that so easily – he could hardly ever get Sherlock to quiet down once he'd started, let alone before he begun.

"It was sarcasm, sweetie; of course you wouldn't have." Sherlock lacked the usual bristle that a comment as such would have normally induced.

" I've read your blog, John," she mentioned, sending him a wicked smirk. He could feel the wisps of embarrassment sneaking in. Despite what Sherlock might have thought, John quite liked his mother already – she still managed to be just as mysterious as her sons.

"You've gotten up to alot since the last time we saw eachother," she said to Sherlock. "Tell me about the cases," she gushed, as excited over the details of gruesome murders as the average woman would be over gossip.

John did his best not to gape.


	17. Sixteen: Violet, Part Two

**Note:** _Updates should begin to circulate regularly soon._

_Violet II_

John was unsure of how long they'd spoken for. By the time Sherlock had stepped out – off to get his mother hot chocolate for her throat – it was already well into the morning.

Most of the hospital was wide awake by then; nurses were bustling in and out, bringing cool air in with each swing of the door. John sat stationary in a chair by Violet, unknowing of what to say now that Sherlock had gone. His mother had propped her pillows up on her bed so that she could lean back comfortably, and John saw the mask fade the instant her son left the room.

Violet was ill, indeed; she was worn out already, exhaustion seeping into her features. John rolled his shoulder instinctively.

"He's never brought anyone 'round before," Violet spoke after an indefinite pause. "Not once, not even as a boy. Didn't even want to bring Mycroft" A smile pulled at the corner of her lips and when she gestured for him to come closer, he did not oppose. He sat carefully on the edge of the hospital bed and she placed a warm hand on his forearm.

He felt like he often did with Sherlock – Violet had the same gaze.

As if she could see directly through him, like he was made of glass.

She looked away from him moments later, watching something just outside of the window. She spoke quietly after another brief pause, confirming his original thoughts.

"I was young when I found out I was going to have Mycroft," she explained, eyes ever so slightly downcast. "I don't even think I was fifteen at the time." Her fingers traced a raised pattern on John's jumper out of habit.

"It was alright then, though," she said with a smile. "I was a journalism intern and was offered a small job shortly after I found out. Their father and I moved in together – he was considerably older at the time."

John watched as she bit her lip softly. "I had been staying with my aunt; she didn't care much when I left." John stayed quiet and did not interrupt, listening to the soft sound of machinery in the background.

"The relationship was strained – between Siger and I," she added later, after a moment's thought. "I was only eighteen what I found out I was expecting again. Another little boy. I was delighted," she murmured, and her grip on John's forearm tightened in the slightest. The smile that her recollection had produced quickly faded.

"Their father wasn't nearly as pleased. We'd been getting distant – neither of us were around much at the same time, with our work hours." She glanced at John for an instant before returning her gaze somewhere outside the window once more.

John kept his eyes on her.

"I figure he was upset that I had stolen so much of his life from him – but a child requires more than one person to be conceived, so he was at just as much fault as I was." She let out a small exhale.

"And one night he packed up and left; I cursed him right out of the house, screaming to high heaven. I'd never fought like that with him before," she confessed somewhat sheepishly. "Never so much as raised my voice with Mycroft in the house. He still vaguely remembers it. I suppose I scared him quite a bit, then," she noted solemnly.

"Not that I regret what anything I said to Siger – he was a blood great prat and we were far better off without him." She laughed airily, and John smiled at her so widely his cheeks had begun to ache.

"I was financially stable at the time; had a few good friends willing to stay with Mycroft and I when Sherlock got too big for me to walk properly." Her mood was pleasant.

"We lived in a neighborhood just outside of London – had a lovely little place. Sherlock was born, Mycroft went to primary school," she summarized, and John could imagine it. A little two-story home in a nice area; paint on the walls and childrens' coloured drawings taped up in various rooms.

"Of course, we had our rough times, like when I almost lost my job," she mentioned. "But it was all fine."

She turned to look at John directly now, and there was a soft sadness in her eyes. The type that took years to wear and soften around the edges, but ultimately refused to leave you. Violet Holmes was a strong woman – likely the strongest he'd known since his own mother.

The thought was a warm one.

"Sherlock has seen things, John," she said quietly, and her voice tapered at the end. Her eyes, however, did not water.

"Terrible things – much like what you've seen, I figure."

John did not comment.

"No matter what he does, what he says, how he acts – take that into account. My son is not normal; never will be, never can be," she said. Unlike how most parents would respond, there was pride in her voice.

"He may have invested most of his life into learning how to hide things, but I can see it," she voiced.

"He's never cared for anyone the way he does you – not even me. Not with that intensity."

John did not ask for clarification. It felt like his throat was closing – like he was drowning, with no outward signs.

"So whatever happens, take care of him," she begged. "Please."

There was a tinge of desperation in her tone and John found himself agreeing without hesitation, promising her wholeheartedly. If it had been anyone; absolutely anyone else, John would not have reacted the way he did. But Sherlock Holmes was different – he was always different. But it was all fine.

Violet didn't skip a beat, lightly patting his forearm.

"And besides," she teased, smirking. "Can't leave him alone for ten minutes, can we? Like an overgrown toddler, that one is."

And suddenly the water was gone; John was no longer drowning in the things that weren't there.

He tried to contain his laughter but it sputtered out regardless, and he grinned wickedly at her, standing slowly. "Guess it's in our job description, isn't it?"

She smiled back at him, adjusting the cannula before pulling the blanket closer to herself.

"Bring him back to see me later this week, won't you?" she asked, eyelids heavy. John could see her beginning to drop off. He nodded in agreement.

"And you best come too, John."

He beamed.

When Sherlock returned minutes afterwards, his mother had already fallen asleep.

John watched silently as he placed the plastic mug of hot chocolate on the bedside table, writing out a small note and placing it underneath. He leaned down to press a soft kiss to his mothers' temple, wrapping the blanket more snugly around her. He acted with much more affection than John had ever seen, and so when Sherlock turned back, he pretended that he'd been looking elsewhere.

"What did you talk about while I was gone?" Sherlock asked during the cab ride back to Baker Street.

John smiled.

"The usual."


End file.
